


Can't Stay Apart

by horrorsilk



Series: Kinktober 2020 [10]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Boot Worship, Dom/sub, Kinktober, Leather, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:16:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26917231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/horrorsilk/pseuds/horrorsilk
Summary: Behind closed doors, he doesn't have to be a leader.Behind closed doors, he doesn't have to be anyone but Arthur.That's all he's ever really wanted.For Kinktober prompt: boot worship
Relationships: Arthur Maxson/Male Sole Survivor, Arthur Maxson/Sole Survivor
Series: Kinktober 2020 [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947808
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	Can't Stay Apart

The smell of stale tobacco and spilled liquor slammed into him like he'd run into a brick wall. This is _not_ the kind of place the leader of the Brotherhood of Steel should go. _Not_ the kind of place Elder Maxson, commander of one of the most powerful factions in the Commonwealth would visit, even as a dead man.

Which is exactly why he was here as Arthur. No surnames, no titles. Just a man, dressed in a beat up flannel shirt and patched khakis, face hidden behind a bandana that might have been red at one point, but was faded now to a washed out pink. He scanned the room, taking stock of the bar and its patrons. Most of them were already hammered, and those that weren't were well on their way. There were a number of ghouls playing a game of cards at the far side of the room, the smoke from their cigarettes curling lazily above their heads in a bluish haze. 

He looked up to the bar and spotted the person he was supposed to meet leaning against the counter, nursing a glass of whiskey and chatting casually with a fairly attractive woman dressed in a bright red sequin dress. Arthur ordered himself a bourbon from the robotic bartender, sitting down on one of the questionably study stools while he waited for the other man to finish his conversation. Which was only a few minutes, at which point he gave the woman a kiss on the cheek and plopped down next to Arthur, tossing back his whiskey.

"Evening, Arthur," he said smoothly, hazel eyes bright even in the low light of the bar. "Seems like you found the place all right."

"Hello, General. I found it just fine; I just asked for directions to the filthiest place in the Commonwealth." Athur didn't even try to hide the contempt in his voice; despite the little facade he was putting on, he still despised Goodneighbor. 

Warren clicked his tongue. "Well if _that's_ the kind of attitude you're going to have, maybe it'd be better if you didn't stick around." He swiveled in the stool as if he meant to get up, but Arthur grabbed the sleeve of his leather jacket to stop him.

"No, that's not what I...I didn't..." He glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry? Sorry _what?"_ Warren's voice was almost a purr.

Arthur set his jaw.

"I'm sorry, _sir._ "

Warren seemed pleased, nodding slowly. "Better. Now, whenever you finish that bourbon, I'm sure you'll be needing a room for the night." He slid a key across the counter, which Arthur picked up and pocketed immediately. "The Rexford. Room 36." With that he settled his - and Arthur's - tab and vanished into the smoky, tumultuous room, swallowed by the crowd. 

Arthur tried to act as casual as he could, tugging down the bandana on his face to toss back his drink. This wasn't the first time they'd met like this, but he was still a tightly-wound bundle of nerves, and alcohol never hurt. Once he was done, he pulled the bandana back into place and stuffed his hands into his pockets, shouldering his way through a group of ghouls having a rather animated discussion, grateful once the crowds were left behind and he was out in the fresh air. Well, open air was likely more accurate a description. He doubted there was anything fresh about this cesspool. 

Still, he made his way to the somehow still-standing Hotel Rexford, ignoring the man trying to hawk chems at the door as he made his way up to the room Warren had left the key for. He hesitated for a moment before pressing the key into the hole, taking in a deep breath, willing his heartbeat to slow as he turned it. The lock clicked and the door swung open, and he'd only barely closed it behind him when he was slammed against the wood, wrists pinned to his sides, his breathing wild as Warren trapped him there. 

"There's my good boy," he growled, letting go of one of Arthur's wrists to pull the bandana away from his face. "Fuck, I missed you." He gave the man a fleeting smile before kissing him, the embrace leaving them both breathless in the wake of its ferocious hunger. "Come here."

Warren sat back on the double-wide mattress, already having stripped down to his jeans and white t-shirt, but when he lifted a foot to unlace his combat boots, Arthur made a soft sound and moved to kneel on the floor before him.

"Let me," he breathed.

Warren looked confused, brows furrowed, but then he nodded. It was strange, the unspoken communication, trust, between them. And even stranger was the way Arthur so gladly accepted the change of dynamic; the first time they'd done something like this, he'd been almost disgusted with himself, confused as to why willingly submitting himself to another was so intoxicating to him. But with Warren's surprisingly gentle guidance and encouragement, he'd learned to not only accept but embrace that part of himself. And having someone he trusted so completely take care of him in this way was more than he could have ever hoped for. 

So when he took Warren's calf in his hands, sliding his fingers down the denim to cradle his boot almost delicately, there was no self-loathing or shame in his eyes. There was no questioning whether it was right or wrong that he was in this position. There was only the desire to please. Arthur bent, pressing a kiss to the toe of the scuffed boot, tilting his head so he could trail his lips over the surface until he'd kissed from the toe to the heel. The boots were worn, but not filthy; Warren always went through great lengths to keep his boots in decent shape. A leftover habit from his days in the military, Arthur surmised. So he felt no qualms in repeating his earlier motions, but this time he slicked his tongue over the boots, licking it clean, before finally taking the laces in his teeth and tugging to untie them. 

With a final kiss against Warren's ankle, Arthur slipped the boot from his foot and repeated the entire process on his opposite foot.

The taste of leather was thick on his tongue when Warren grabbed his shoulder, pulling him up onto the bed with him and tugging him down to kiss him again. The Vault-Dweller tasted like tobacco and whiskey and something minty, and the flavour of him mingling with what already coated Arthur's tongue drove him mad. More, he needed more.

He needed _everything._

And Warren was always happy to provide.

He sucked bruises into Arthur's throat while they untangled themselves from their clothes, heated bodies slotting together to move in tandem, the pleasure of one only heightening that of the other. And when Warren slipped his hand lower, tracing around Arthur's entrance before pressing a finger inside, they both moaned in unison.

It had been the better part of two months since they'd done this together, but at Warren's instruction, Arthur had been _taking care of himself_ in the interim. So it didn't take long for him to be stretched enough to be ready for the Vault-Dweller's cock, but even still, there was no muffling the cry that loosed from his lips as he was filled to the brim. Warren buried himself to the hilt, tangling his fingers in Arthur's hair as he fucked him. The pace started slow, deliberate, considerate, but as the primal need to claim, to cum, overpowered them both, there was no kindness in the brutal thrusts. And Arthur didn't want gentle anymore. He wanted to hurt, to feel, to be covered in marks so everyone would know just who he belonged to.

Not the Brotherhood. Not the Commonwealth.

He belonged to Warren.

With a strangled sound, he took his own length in hand, only needing a few swift pumps before he came, the tightening of his muscles enough to drive Warren over the edge as well. As they both came to their senses, Warren stumbled to his feet, gathering up a damp cloth to clean the pair of them up before pouring a glass of water, which he pushed into Arthur's hands, watching with a soft expression as he drank. Once he had, Warren lay down, pulling Arthur up against him and covering them both with a blanket.

"Do you need anything else?" he asked gently, pushing a few strands of hair out of Arthur's face. "I've got some food in my pack if you're hungry."

"No, I'm fine." Arthur sighed, tracing over one of the scars on the Vault-Dweller's abdomen. "Thank you."

Warren nodded and kissed the top of his head. "Let's try and get some sleep, then," he said, snuggling closer. 

Arthur was just about to fall asleep when he heard the man chuckle. "What's so funny?"

"Oh, nothing. I just can't believe you agreed to come to Goodneighbor in the first place. I'm not complaining, though."

Though he was too tired to say much of anything now, Arthur grinned; he wasn't complaining, either.

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly I've had this idea percolating around in the old noggin for probably the past two years but only now do I have a reason and the motivation to write it so let's go. XD


End file.
